


The Boy at the Bar

by Ella_Greggs



Category: Major Crimes (TV), The Closer
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:51:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ella_Greggs/pseuds/Ella_Greggs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm just ... hanging out, y'know? I like to meet new people." After a moment's hesitation, the boy leaned over and put his hand on Gavin's knee. "How 'bout you?" he asked like there was a gun to his head. "Do you like ... meeting new people?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chablis and Coca-cola

**Author's Note:**

> I just wondered what might happen if certain characters from 'The Closer' and 'Major Crimes' who never met each other in cannon did in fact actually meet. Not a cross-over, exactly, because both shows occupy the same universe.
> 
> Time Frame: The story is set about mid-way through The Closer's final season.
> 
> Rating is for mentions of underage prostitution and very mild cursing.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine. Never was mine. Never will be mine.

"Hmph!"

Gavin dropped heavily onto the bar stool with exaggerated fatigue. "Chablis," he commanded.

It had been a crappy day. He'd kept his cool, of course, but Goldman and this wrongful death suit were really starting to irritate him. And Brenda was a dear, but defending a guilty conscience was very draining. Taking his drink, he exhaled and pushed it all from his mind. He was off the clock now and looking forward to a nice gourmet dinner with fine wine and intelligent conversation. Not in this dreadfully pedestrian dive, of course! But it was a convenient place to meet and decide which of the new "in" restaurants they wanted to try.

He sipped the surprisingly adequate Chablis and surveyed the crowded room as if he owned it. So where was she? Gavin checked his watch – exactly 8 PM. He looked over his left shoulder towards the door. Ten more minutes and the meal was on her.

"Hey," came a slightly squeaky voice from his right.

Gavin turned in his seat with his mouth already half opened, ready to cut off whatever inane chatter his would-be bar buddy had to offer. Instead, he abruptly closed his mouth in surprise. It was a kid! Pale. Cute. Badly in need of a hair cut. He couldn't be more than 16.

"That must be some fake I.D. you have," Gavin quipped. Not that he was going to do anything about it. Just because he worked with cops all the time, that didn't make him intolerant of harmless pretty blond tarts in tight jeans. Gavin was a conservationist – he conserved his energy for winning cases, making money, and socializing with a small and select group of friends. The rest was just the absurd parade of life. Besides, he was off the clock.

But the boy didn't know that. His jaw tightened slightly and his eyes flashed. Then he forced a grimace that approximated a friendly smile. "Don't turn me in, okay?" His voice was high and anxious. Definitely underage. "I'm just having a coke. See?" Gavin glanced at his drink and nodded. "I'm just ... hanging out, y'know? I like to meet new people." After a moment's hesitation, he leaned over and put his hand on Gavin's knee. "How 'bout you?" he asked like there was a gun to his head. "Do you like ... meeting new people?"

Gavin glanced down at the stranger's hand, then back up to study his face. Underneath that fake grin, the kid looked scared and sounded pissed. It was fascinating, the disconnect between his inviting words, his frightened expression and his hostile tone.

"Listen, little man-child," Gavin said in the soft, patient, condescending voice he used on obstinate clients, "if you're going to hustle in here, you absolutely  _must_  develop better acting skills."

The boy withdrew his hand abruptly. "I'm not a child, I'm 18." He nervously pushed his overly long bangs off his forehead. Gavin raised his eyebrows and shot him an unspoken  _'if you say so'_  smirk. "And I wasn't... doing  _th-that_. I was just trying to make conversation!"

"Yes," Gavin replied dryly. "The kind that only involves body language." He drew in a big breath through his nose and exhaled loudly. God, he was old enough to be this kid's father! That was depressing. This kid was depressing. He twisted around to look again at the bar's entrance.

"Anyway, some guys like being with younger men," the boy said bitterly, the fake smile a distant memory. "It's a power trip for them or something." He slouched and stared at his drink. "Or maybe they're acting out some sick incest fantasy, fucking me instead of molesting their sons."

Gavin wasn't sure the boy was still talking to him. He ventured another look. It was impossible to say for certain, but the youth seemed too coherent and way too depressed to be high. He wasn't drinking alcohol. So probably not an addict, just homeless. A runaway, maybe. Gavin chose to ignore the pin prick of concern in his gut. Not his client, not his problem.

Gazing deeply into his cola, the boy achieved enlightenment. "Some guys are real assholes."

"When you get a little older, I think you'll find that most people are assholes. It's rooted deep in our DNA."

The kid looked unimpressed. "Is that supposed to be profound or something?"

"My, don't  _we_  have an attitude!" Privately, Gavin was amused by this hooker with a heart of coal. The kid seemed bitter and angry (not a big surprise considering what he was doing), and was playing to his strengths. It was a type of come-hither strategy, he supposed, treating potential clients like dirt. Gavin knew some guys got off on bitchy, but that wasn't his thing. Even if it had been, Gavin Q. Baker, III did  _not_  pay for sex. Brooches, yes, but not sex. Besides, there was still that distasteful odor of statutory rape clinging to the child.

Gavin sighed. "I've had a long day, my friend is offensively late, and I'm not interested in what you're offering. So I'm going to walk over there now. Bye-bye." He raised his chin and turned towards the tables behind them.

"No!" The boy grabbed his arm but it seemed to be a spontaneous gesture this time, backed by some urgency Gavin didn't understand. "I mean, I'll stop talking. We don't have to talk at all." He looked around nervously. "Just, you know," his squeaky voice dropped low, "just take me somewhere. Your car or whatever. We can be quick if you want."

Gavin looked at the reluctant prostitute's hand laying tense on his forearm. He should just get up and leave. As a general rule he wasn't given to championing lost causes, cooing over newborns or feeding stray cats. But he felt compelled to do something for the boy, to make himself feel better about the fact that he wasn't going to do anything for the boy.

So he pulled out his wallet. "Here." He extracted a fifty-dollar bill and placed it next to the hooker's drink. "Obviously I can't tell you what to do, but I suggest investing in a proper meal or two. Maybe somewhere safe to sleep. Take it. No strings, I promise."

The boy picked up the money cautiously, suspicion written all over his face. "And you don't want...?"

"No. I'm quite sure I don't want."

The boy exhaled, obviously relieved. "Thanks. That's... that's really nice of you." He looked more guilty than grateful as he slipped the bill into his skinny jeans. Then he offered his hand. "I'm Rusty."

Gavin made no move to shake it. "I'd say it was nice to meet you, Rusty, but I'm not sure that's entirely true." Giving him the fifty hadn't brought as much relief as he'd expected.

The kid – Rusty – just stared at him awkwardly and slowly lowered his arm. "I'd promise to pay you back, but ..." Rusty shrugged.

Gavin waived his hand dismissively but said nothing. What was there to say? They both knew the score. He'd been appropriately noble and now he really wanted this sad encounter over and done. So he focused on drinking his Chablis as fast as possible without seeming to be in a hurry. But the boy persisted.

"S-so, what do you do for a living?"

Gavin sighed again. This was becoming tedious. "Excuse me, why are we still conversing? I don't want your company and that's all the money I intend to give you."

The boy – Rusty – looked embarrassed. And  _very_  young. Gavin felt that pin prick again, but he'd had years of practice at ignoring it. And by and large, he was largely successful.

"Um, it's just... I haven't... just  _talked_  to somebody in a while and –"

Gavin caught a flash of long auburn hair out the corner of his eye. "Ah, my friend is here." He rose slightly faster than he needed to and flashed his own insincere smile. "Take care of yourself, Rusty."

If Rusty said anything after that, Gavin didn't hear it. He crossed the restaurant with his usual firm, confident strides, passing through the thick crowd, his mood improving with each step. By the time he reached her, the boy at the bar had already ceased to exist.

"Gavin!" she exclaimed, holding out her hand. "I am so sorry I'm late!"

Even though she'd kept him waiting, it was worth it to spend time with one of the few people he actually, genuinely liked, so he decided he wouldn't stick her with the check. He'd just exchange a few words with her about the Baylor case and write it off as a business dinner.

Ignoring her hand, he moved in for a hug. "Now that you're here, Sharon darling, all is forgiven."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope people didn't think I made Gavin too callous. It's hard to get a fix on Gavin's personality from the show. He's only in a handful of scenes and we know absolutely nothing about his personal life. I don't think he'd be okay with the situation Rusty is in, but I also don't think he'd step in to do something about it because of his "not my client, not my problem" approach to the world.


	2. Beer and Ice Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you okay?" the doctor asked again. He took note of the boy's dirt-stained, rumpled clothes. "Are you hurt, did someone hurt you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time frame is the same as Chapter 1, somewhere around the middle of The Closer season 7. If anyone knows Dr. Morales' first name, could you let me know? I couldn't find it listed anywhere.

Morales breathed in, threw back his shoulders and elongated his spine, an old clubbing habit left over from the days when he was self-conscious about his height. Nowadays, he'd given up cursing his shortness in favor of bemoaning his crows feet.

He liked this place. It had been here forever and didn't even try to stay trendy. As a result, it was one of the few gay bars around where the clientele included 'aunties' like himself. And not every man looked like a model or a body builder, although that wolf over by the pay phone looked a little bit of both and he sure was rocking those jeans.

The doctor's stomach kept flipping between nervous and excited. He hadn't put himself on the market in ages. The corpses he hung around with were a bad influence. Tonight he was going to be brave, feel alive! He resolved that if anyone asked, he was just a doctor. Much less creepy than medical examiner. Plenty of time on a second date for stories about rehydrating burnt hands for fingerprints and that sort of thing. He thought for a moment. Maybe not.

He was ridiculously keyed up. Truth be told, he hated going out stag but knew he had to push himself. His life had become way too solitary of late.

 _I need to calm down,_ he thought, as he eased his way through the crowd to the bar.

"Draft on tap," he told the cutie behind the bar. He'd hardly put the bottle to his lips when someone slammed into the seat beside him, breathing hard.

"Are you okay?" he blurted out before he'd really had a chance to look at the guy.

But then he did. His new companion was very young. Morales looked a little more closely. Make that _very_ young. The teen was clearly upset, lips quivering, hands shaking.

"C-can I have a g-glass of water?" the teenager asked anxiously over the bar.

The bartender frowned. "I told you not to come back here."

"Please!" The boy seemed desperate and wild-eyed. "Please, just a glass of water and then I'll go, I promise!"

The bartender's scowl deepened but he scooped up a glass of ice and drowned it in water. "Seriously, kid, you can't do your thing in here," he said firmly as he passed it across the bar.

But the boy had eyes only for the water. "Thanks!" Morales noted that his hands were still shaking when he took the glass. He gulped down a few mouthfuls. Then a little calmer, "Thanks."

"Are you okay?" the doctor asked again. He took note of the boy's dirt-stained, rumpled clothes. "Are you hurt, did someone hurt you?"

The boy started. Apparently he hadn't noticed Morales sitting next to him all this time.

"I...I'm fine," he answered too quickly, his voice too high. He took another nervous gulp. "I just... I was, um, on a date, and my date wanted... he wanted..." The boy looked away. His face sort of crumpled. "I just d-didn't expect that and I-I'm kind of freaking out, to tell you the truth."

Morales frowned. "If he forced you-"

"No one forces me to do anything I don't want to," he insisted, but he was clearly lying. It was obviously a lie that meant a lot to him.

Even though the boy (fifteen? sixteen?) had turned haughty, Morales became more, rather than less, intrigued. Every body tells a story, and the body next to him was signaling extreme distress.

"This date, are you going to see him again?" the doctor asked cautiously.

The teen's eyes narrowed. "What, are you my mother or something?"

"It's just that if he makes you uncomfortable -"

The kid slammed his half-empty glass on the bar. "Okay, fine!" he snapped impatiently, turning on the doctor. "Fine! It wasn't that kind of date, alright?" He dropped his voice and gave Morales a meaningful look. "It was … it was more of a _business_ meeting."

Morales knew instantly what he meant, what he was, but … but... Fifteen? Sixteen? Good God! He blinked a few times and then went pale when he realized he had been staring at the boy for several seconds and probably giving the wrong impression about why.

"I-I'm sorry," he stuttered, looking away quickly. "I didn't -"

"You should learn to mind your own business, maybe, huh?" Apparently satisfied that he had put the doctor in his place, the boy finished his water. "Thanks, man," he called to the bartender (who wasn't paying attention), placing the glass down carefully on the counter. He stood and gave Morales one last defiant look. He seemed to debate saying something, but then just stalked away.

Morales felt queasy. It was so wrong, this hard, bitter boy going back to the streets, where he would probably die violently and end up on the doctor's exam table as a major crime. There should be _something_ he could do. Normally, the doctor was protective of his awkward, tender heart that even at this age still had no shields. Friends, lovers, family - it was so easy to hurt him. The dead were safe, which is why he typically preferred their company. As Morales watched the boy stomp away, his self-disappointment grew. Tonight was supposed to be about breaking out of his comfort zone.

Again a form dropped into the seat next to him. "Nice to see another over-40 around here."

He turned to his side. It was a man this time. Dark hair, just the right amount of stubble on his face, a face that was quite handsome but had some reassuring mileage on it. The man gave him a friendly, encouraging grin.

Morales debated for a moment. The man next to him, the boy who'd just left – feeling alive meant connecting, taking risks. But he had to choose between them, and he chose the boy, because years ago he had taken an oath to alleviate the suffering of others, and right now that obligation trumped his own loneliness.

"Excuse me," he blurted out and started towards the door. An instant later he turned back and gave his own apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, but there's something I have to do."

The man looked a little startled but nodded a silent assent.

Morales pushed through the crowd and out the door, looking frantically left and right. He spotted the kid half a block down and jogged over, not wanting to give fear and inertia any time to take control.

"What do you want?" the boy demanded, taking a few steps back and balling his fists.

"I just..." Morales hesitated. "Are you going to be okay? I mean, I'm a doctor. If you're hurt -"

"I said I'm fine and that means I'm fine!" The boy looked into his worried face, and sighed. "Look, you... you know about me, right?" Morales nodded. "So there's only two ways you can help me. Take me on a date, or leaving me alone."

A 'date' was unthinkable. The alternative … He knew he was alive, because he felt so acutely useless. There _was_ no alternative to the alternative.

Spreading his hands open and empty at his sides, he sagged in frustration. "I'm sorry," he said again.

The boy looked ...hurt ... disappointed. He shook his head slowly. His lip began to tremble and his eyes to glisten. Then he turned on his heel and took off running.

Morales watched him disappear down the street and walked slowly back to the bar. So much for putting himself out there. Another drink and then home to bed. In the morning, he'd go back to his regular patients, the ones that couldn't hurt him.

"You okay?" It was the man who'd smiled at him, still sitting in the spot where Morales had left him. "I don't mean to pry, but you ran out of here looking kind of worried and – I'm sorry if I'm overstepping."

Morales shook his head and smiled weakly. "Rough night among the living."

The man snorted in amusement. "Never heard that one before." He touched the doctor's shoulder lightly, and Morales felt the warmth of another seep in through his shirt. "C'mon. I'll buy you a drink."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry the story was so sad for Rusty. The more I think about his situation, the more I realize that short of offering him a home, there really isn't much well-meaning people like Dr. Morales can do for him. But I wanted a happy ending, at least for the good doctor. I'm marking the story complete, since I never did have a larger narrative in mind, just these two encounters. Thanks to everyone for reading and please review if you get a chance! Ella


End file.
